Kill the Irishman

Christopher Walken in a scene from “Kill the Irishman,” about the waning days of the Cleveland mob in the 1970s.Credit
Anchor Bay Films

“There’s a bit of good in every Irishman,” says a nosy crone (Fionnula Flanagan) midway through “Kill the Irishman,” an extravagantly corny ode to the collapse of the Cleveland mafia in the 1970s.

Clearly agreeing with the old biddy, the film’s director and co-writer, Jonathan Hensleigh, never misses an opportunity to mythologize the meatheads who populate his script. Goosing the story with actual news footage (some of it delivered by a baby-faced Brian Ross), Mr. Hensleigh recounts the fetid flowering of Danny Greene (Ray Stevenson) from orphaned tearaway to corrupt union boss to leg breaker for the local wiseguys.

Narrated by a local detective (played by a disturbingly puffy Val Kilmer) and inspired by Rick Porrello’s true-crime account, “Kill the Irishman” is an episodic blur of sit-downs and blowups. As Danny strides through town (with present-day Detroit standing in very handily for 1970s Cleveland) like a Celtic Colossus, impervious to bombs, bullets and harsh words, his director films him with flattering upward angles and “Lord of the Dance” stylings on the soundtrack. Around him, gabagool-drama regulars conspire and expire — and even write a poem to his awesomeness — before finally hitting their target. It’s too bad that Mr. Hensleigh never hits his.

Directed by Jonathan Hensleigh; written by Mr. Hensleigh and Jeremy Walters, based on the book “To Kill the Irishman,” by Rick Porrello; director of photography, Karl Walter Lindenlaub; edited by Douglas Crise; music by Patrick Cassidy; production design by Patrizia von Brandenstein; costumes by Melissa Bruning; produced by Al Corley, Bart Rosenblatt, Eugene Musso and Tommy Reid; released by Anchor Bay Films. Running time: 1 hour 46 minutes.